CHAPTER LVII.
RELEASE.
‘Mr. Lazarus,’ said Joanna.
‘Call me Emmanuel, or, for short, Em.’
‘Mr. Lazarus,’ said Joanna, disregarding the interruption, ‘you will not proceed against Mr. Cheek.’
‘Why not? Show me the reason. Didn’t he shake me, and slap me, and bang me, and beat me with a stick? Didn’t he burst the buttons off me, and nigh upon throttle me with my cravat? And didn’t he tumble my teeth out and break the laces of my stays? Am I to sit down under all these provocations and bear them like a lamb?’
‘I entreat you to pass this over. Do not appear against him.’
‘No, no, Joanna. Do not try this on too soon. We are not wed yet, and when we are, you will have to learn that wedlock does not make a missus of you over me. Mistress of the house, of the pots and pans, and the servant if we have one—though I dare say we can manage if Mrs. Thresher will come in charing—mistress over Mrs. Thresher if you like, but not over me. Do you know that every day I say the Berochos shel shachrit, and bless Providence that I am not born a Gentile, born a slave, and born a woman. Among you Christians the order of the domestic world is inverted, and the woman dominates over man and beast. It is not so with us. The Parsees have a very good custom. Every morning the wife falls down before her husband’s feet and worships him. Even we Jews have not attained to such a pitch of enlightenment as that. In the Aisher-Yotsar every day we thank Providence for having made openings in us, eyes wherewith to see, ears wherewith to hear, nostrils wherewith to smell, doors these for the acquisition of information, and we pray that they may ever be kept open; and now, through these same doors to-day imbibe the lesson that, in this house, I remain master. In whatsoever capacity you be, whether as maid-of-all-work, or as pawn, or as wife, I remain above you, as the sun is above the earth. Your orbit is about me, not mine round you.’
Preparations had been made in the house for the change in the condition of the two usual inmates. Three upper rooms had been completely cleared of their contents, and they had been adapted for habitation. That commanding the street, immediately over the shop, was to be the drawing-room, another was furnished as the dining-room. In one way or another Lazarus disposed of a great deal of rubbish. He groaned over it, because he was losing money. ‘This sofa,’ said he, ‘must go for twelve and three, and the cabinet for fifteen and nine. If I bided my time I might dispose of the sofa for two guineas, and the cabinet for fifty shillings, but let this loss of three pound four—say three guineas—be an evidence to my Joanna of the love and self-sacrifice lodged in this bosom. Love may well be described as a devouring flame; it consumes a lot of capital.’
The beds, the tables, chairs, wardrobes, uniforms, crockery, were disposed of, and space made for the painters and paperers to get to work. The staircase was put to rights, the floors relaid. ‘Though why the floors should be made pretty, when they will be covered by carpets, is more than I can see.’
On Saturday morning the Jew and Joanna, with Mrs. Thresher and her husband, appeared before the registrar the two latter as witnesses.
‘If I was to die intestate, and without a family,’ said Lazarus, ‘half of all I’m possessed of would go to the widow, and the other half to the next of kin, and it would take something to find a kinsman. But now I have made you to take all, Joanna, by my marriage settlement, which Grudge brought here yesterday for signature. Which is another proof—if proof were wanting—how fond I am of you. Joanna, when I come to consider all I’ve done for you, how I have lifted you out of the dirt, so to speak, to make you my consort, and how I have scattered the contents of the three upper rooms, and how I have made liberal provision for you should you survive me—I say that, considering all this, I think there should be no bounds to your gratitude and devotion to me.’
The upper room, intended as dining-room, was prepared for the occasion of the religious ceremonial. In the middle hung a brass lamp of seven nozzles, the Sabbatical lamp, with seven wicks, which were all burning. The howdah, raised on four poles, a richly decorated canopy of red silk embroidered with gold thread, rested against the wall; on an ormolu marble-topped side table stood a large crystal goblet filled with purple wine. The day was not quite set, but the blinds were drawn that the inquisitive people of the marine store opposite, who were well aware what was about to take place, and whose windows commanded the room, might be debarred participation in the ceremony. Directly the sun set, and the Sabbath was over, the Rabbi would arrive, together with some Plymouth Jews and Jewesses, invited to be present. For the occasion, Mrs. Thresher presided in the kitchen.
Lazarus was in high excitement. He had eaten nothing all day, as a Jew is required to fast on his wedding day. He was restless. He ran about the house to assure himself that all was in readiness. As the Saturday before a Bank holiday was one in which much business was done, he had sent Joanna into the shop. The opportunity of making something was not to be neglected. It took him some time to put himself to rights after the thrashing he had received from Charles Cheek. His shirt and his new cloth clothes, and his glossy dyed hair were all ruffled, but his temper was more ruffled than they, less easily smoothed. It was unreasonable of Joanna to ask him to forgive Charles. Who is disposed to forgive injuries on an empty stomach? Lazarus was heated, fretted, fuming, his cunning eyes sparkling with feverish light.
A small room on the ground floor had been cleared for Joanna as a place in which she could sit instead of occupying the kitchen. Hitherto it had been filled with goods. It was rather bare of furniture, and was uncarpeted, but then, as Lazarus said, why launch out into extravagance over a room no one would be received into?
The sun had set. Joanna was seated in this room. The shutters had been put up in the shop. There was twilight at this time of the year, and the girl sat in the window looking out into the street, in the twilight. The guests were arriving; the ladies in their richest dresses—handsome young Jewesses with splendid eyes, and elderly Jewesses gross and coarse; Jews in evening suits under their overcoats, with white ties, and white kid gloves, and waistcoats festooned with chains. The cohen had come, and had been received with respect.
Joanna would not appear till the last moment. She heard the trampling of the feet in the passage, Mrs. Thresher’s voice as she divested the ladies of their wraps. She heard the feet go up the steep stairs, and then the buzz of the voices overhead.
Polly Thresher was there, the daughter of the ham shop, a young lady who was barmaid at an inn, but who had come for the occasion to help. Polly was not an old bird, she fed on chaff; she gave chaff also. She was thought to be pretty, and assumed the airs of a beauty—a forward, fast young lady, accustomed to the society of the gentlemen who hang about a bar. She and a young Jewess were to be Joanna’s bridesmaids, and lead her to the dining-room and the howdah, when all were arrived and ready for the performance of the ceremony.
Joanna sat by the window, looking wistfully into the street, without looking at anything in particular. She had her hands in her lap, folded. A hard despairing expression was on her face.
Miss Thresher put her head in. ‘Oh my! not got your veil on, miss? The gents and ladies is nigh all assembled, also the minister, with a long beard.’
‘Polly,’ said Joanna, ‘do me a favour. Ask Mr. Lazarus to come down.’ The good-natured girl nodded, and ran up-stairs. A moment after the usurer entered the room.
‘Heigh, Joanna,’ he said; ‘looking beautiful in that dress; wanting in colour rather. I wish I could persuade you to use a little rouge de théâtre. There is a make-up box in that cupboard. One always reads of a “blushing bride,” and you look as though you had dusted your face over with blanc de perle. Put on diamonds. Don’t shrink. The ladies upstairs have piled on all the jewelry they could borrow, and I don’t want you to fall short. I’ve not made as much show hitherto as others, but I’ve made more money than any man in the room up-stairs.’
‘Mr. Lazarus,’ she said, ‘I have sent for you once more to entreat you not to appear against Mr. Charles Cheek. He has just turned over a new leaf, has left his father and entered an office—he is with shipping agents—and he lives on what he earns. Let him go quietly back on Monday. Do not stand in his way. I ask you this as a personal favour. I have not asked you many favours. This shall be my last. Will you grant it me?
‘No, Joanna, most certainly not. It is of no use your interceding with me for that scapegrace. It is a principle with me that no one shall touch me without suffering for it, and I am sure you would not have me go against principle.’
‘I implore you, let him go! I will ask you on my knees.’
‘No,’ answered the Jew, ‘I will not. Not now, and never.’
Then he left.
‘In five minutes we shall expect you,’ he said, in the door. ‘Miss Phillips will come down for you.’
She remained seated. Her lips moved. She plucked a little bunch of lily of the valley from her bosom, looked at it, kissed it, and replaced it. Then she folded her hands again, and remained motionless.
People passed in the street. Boys romped, women scolded. A cart went by laden with fish, then a wheelbarrow with whiting. Some sailors, half tipsy, drifted past, singing, squabbling. The lamplighter came to turn the gas and ignite it. She watched him, bending forward to observe how often he missed the tap. She put her hand to her brow; it was burning, but her hands and feet were like ice. She was in white silk, and beside her, over a chair, hung a rich lace veil.
Seven years ago, on that very day, her mother had brought her to the Golden Balls. Every circumstance came back upon her memory with vivid distinctness. Seven years of slavery, leading now to what was worse a hundred times.
‘Fool that I was,’ she muttered, ‘to climb out of the water. Better have choked in that slime than have come to this. I have lived in hope, and now hope is dead. My mother has died, I know not when and I know not where, and I was not by her to close her eyes and receive her last kiss.
Then she heard a tap at the door.
She stood up and threw the veil over her head.
‘Are you ready?’ asked Miss Polly Thresher and Miss Phillips, standing in the doorway. ‘Everyone is ready, and expecting you.’
She turned once more with a face that darkened as though a fold of the coming night had dropped over it, towards the window, irresolute, unwilling to go.
At that moment she heard a voice, and her heart stood still. The voice was in the street and the tones were familiar.
‘Here, lass! Thou’lt find t’ bairn right enough.’
Joanna uttered a piercing cry, and dashed through the door, driving the two girls standing in it to right and left. In another moment she was in the street, laughing, crying, clasping a poor woman, whilst a burly skipper stood by, with his hands in his pockets, and chuckled.
‘Mother! mother!’ she cried, ‘I knew you would come. I was sure you would not desert me. Only just at the last my trust gave way. Now all is well! Oh, so well! mother! mother!’
The woman she clung to was indeed the same poor creature whom we saw in the first chapter of the story throw herself and the child into Sutton Pool.
She was thin, oldened, haggard, with grey in her hair, and a wandering look in her eyes, but the face was the same. Joanna knew her instantly. Her heart leaped towards her with a spasm of mingled joy and pain. The poor woman seemed quite as poor as when she tried to drown herself seven years before. She did not seem to have gained much more courage to battle with the hardships of life during these years.
Joanna drew her into the house, thrust the two young women impatiently, angrily, away, brought her mother into her own room, and then shut and locked and bolted the door against intruders.
Hastily she placed her mother in the chair she had recently occupied, and held her, looked into her worn face, then covered it with kisses and tears; clasped the hands, rough, soiled, wrinkled, and bathed them with tears, and dried them with her burning lips. Then she held the hands to her beating heart as though their pressure would lull its tumult.
‘Oh, mother! my own, my own, my dearest mother!’
She could say no more, only repeat these words again and again, and intercept them with fresh transports. Then she cast herself on her knees and threw one arm about her mother’s waist and the other round her neck, and laid her own hot cheek and burning head against the bosom on which they had rested so often, and where they had found comfort in olden times.
‘Oh, mother! my sweet mother!’ she repeated, and laughed, and wiped her tears away against the poor woman’s breast. ‘Oh, my mother! my mother! God be praised! God be praised!’—and that was the first time Joanna had ever raised her heart to one above. Her joy was so great that it gave her soul wings for the moment, and carried her, unconsciously, on high.
When she became a little calmer she slightly relaxed her hold that she might look at her mother’s face attentively, by the light of the street lamp.
‘Why, my child,’ said the poor woman, ‘what is this? Why are you dressed in this fashion? Are you going to be married?’
At the same moment the girls outside tapped loudly, and Polly Thresher called through the door—
‘They be all waiting, and Mr. Lazarus has sent down to know why you are not come up. Please be quick, miss!’
‘Mother!’ exclaimed Joanna, ‘help me.’
She threw off the veil, and tore off the white silk dress and everything she had on wherewith she had been adorned for the marriage, and eagerly, with hasty fingers, put on her old stuff dress, patched and darned, and her house slippers.
‘I am coming,’ she said triumphantly to those without. ‘Tell them I am ready.’
Then she threw open the door, ran into the shop, took the ledger from the desk, and catching her mother by the hand, drew her with her up the stairs into the room, where a gaily dressed and glittering party were assembled—a room brilliantly lighted—and, drawing her mother after her, pressed forward, and threw the ledger on the table,
‘Lazarus!’ she cried, with exultation in her voice. ‘My mother has come, and brought the money and the duplicate. Score me out! I am no longer Six-hundred-and seventeen. I am free.’